


our salad days

by thepredatorywasp



Series: scream in there [3]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boston, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kid Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 23:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepredatorywasp/pseuds/thepredatorywasp
Summary: The act of wanting is more beautiful on Alex than anything else in the universe. He is the most beautiful thing in the universe.And Alex wants this spontaneous, ill-timed alien baby.Because, of course, he does.Alex sounded a little manic when he called. Michael could make out Texas, and new pods, and a magically ejecting baby, and that Max was an asshole and Isobel had rented him a car and that he was driving from Roswell to Boston right now. With an alien baby.





	our salad days

Six months after Max awoke and Isobel went on her Ice Queen rampage, Michael and Alex were thriving at being friends. No kissing, no fucking. Just good ole’ fashion talking and crying. They only part where they kept slipping up was the hugging. (“Friends hug,” Liz had offered in attempt of support.)

One night, with Fiona gnawing on the umpteenth toy Michael had bought her in the other room, Alex leaned over and kissed him softly. They lain together again and in the morning, Michael teased Alex about the way he hyper-organized his kitchen drawers. Alex was either silent or snapping for the rest of the day. 

Michael supposed that contentment was a fickle bitch and was on the verge of letting out one, long aggrieved wail. “Jesus Christ, what is your problem, man?” He was quickly running out of online classes. He had been working up the courage to ask Alex to come to Boston with him and now he had, unbeknownst to him, fucked everything up. “Baby, please, what is the problem? Did I—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Alex said, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t think that you like me very much.”

Michael was incredulous. “I just fucked you last night. Twice!”

Alex said that has nothing to do with liking him. Michael couldn’t believe it. He had kept his dick dry for six months and if that didn’t mean _something_ then he wanted a damn refund. 

“I’m not the same person I was. I know you love me, but that doesn’t mean you are beholden to me, or whatever.”

“You’re not the same, you’re better.” 

Alex threw his hands in the air and took towards his bedroom. Michael followed, using his mind to ease the pressure of the crutch on Alex's arm, who whipped around, his face contorted and accusing. The fundamentals, the bare bones of Alex are the same, but he recognizes that his frustrating man is struggling to see that.

“I have had my dick inside you more times that I can count,” he offered in an attempt to lighten the mood. Alex just shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed. Michael stepped forward. He ran his hands through Alex’s hair and tugged at it lightly to get him to look up. “You are the first and only person I ever told about me. That I didn’t hide from. You’re funny as hell in that really mean way that I like. I think we surpassed me ‘liking you’ a long time ago. I like you more than anyone. I like your weird drawer dividers! And even if I didn’t, I would still want you. I want you all the time, how clear do I need to make it? I like you.” 

“I’m not an easy person to be with. At least, not right now.” Alex’s hands worms their way under Michael’s shirt, seeking warm, familiar skin. When Michael shrugged, he let out a sigh, rested his forehead just below Michael’s sternum. He whispered into the taut musculature of Michael’s abdomen, “But I like you, too. I really like you. I like you so, so much.”

“I fuckin’ hope so, you freak.” 

* * *

Almost three years later and they still like each other. 

Michael wanted everything then and now. He felt shame in many things that he has done over the course of his life, but never for his desires. Alex had played at wanting nothing and nobody for so long that it was a second skin. A skin adhered so deftly and over the course of lifetime that its slow, methodical removal left him raw. Alex wants now. He spontaneously gets Indian food for them without asking for permission or earning it from a long run. He grabs Michael by the hair and guides him to where he most wants his mouth. He sometimes picks which movie they go to see. He’ll take Michael’s hand on the T or at the doctor's office or at home just because he feels like it. He always presses a single, warm kiss to Michael’s cheek when they part ways in the morning. 

One day, when the autumn air added a flush to his cheeks that Michael was captivated by, he asked him why he always does that, like clockwork, every workday morning. Alex shrugged in that small, unsure way of his and said because he just likes to. Before Alex can ask if it bothers him, Michael cradled his face in his forever work-rough hands and kissed his forehead, languid and long, swayed a little in place. 

The act of wanting is more beautiful on Alex than anything else in the universe. He is the most beautiful thing in the universe. And Alex wants this spontaneous, ill-timed alien baby.

Because, of _ course _, he does. 

Alex sounded a little manic when he called. Michael could make out Texas, and new pods, and a magically ejecting baby, and that Max was an asshole and Isobel had rented him a car and that he was driving from Roswell to Boston. With an alien baby. 

The prospect frightened him, the only framing of a traditional family Michael had was completely abstract. When he was a child and looked to the sky, he never dreamt of a father. Only a mother that he could have all to himself.

Maybe that was because human life had taught him that men were scary. Women were scary, too, but it was different. It just was. To him, Arturo had a mother's energy. Michael had never met a father that he liked. 

He read in a sociology journal that fathers are secondary to a child’s development, socially and emotionally. So, according to social science, fathers don’t matter all that much. On Earth, at least. Fathers don’t matter and Michael has never particularly taken to children. Or, rather, they had never taken to him. 

When Alex told him the baby was male, Michael had felt a pulse of relief. For he couldn’t bear it, the chance that he would ruin a girl. 

* * *

“—and of course, of course, he takes off in the night with it. What exactly are you two going to do with it? Have you thought about that? 

“Of course I’ve—”

“Talk him out of this. Do not let him name it. He’ll get attached.”

“It?”

“You know what I damn-well mean.”

“He is already attached to ‘it.’ Clearly.”

“I am just trying to do the right thing here. For everyone.”

“Yeah. You always are, Max. It historically works out so well for all of us.” 

“That’s not fair.”

Michael just gets out a “Well, life isn’t—” before Max hangs up.

* * *

**1588 miles to go**

Alex is in Tulsa and wants to get out of Oklahoma “as quickly as fucking humanly fucking possible,” so their phone call is short. 

Michael nearly begs him to just displace the car there and fly back, but Alex said it would be a risk. Not only is the kid the very definition of “off the grid,” but they didn’t know what he can do, powers wise, and the last thing they need to find that out in a sealed metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air. He tells Michael to calm down. He said they were taking toll roads the whole way there like a millionaires. Alex laughs when says, “So, me and the little dude just gotta focus on not crashing and ending up dead in a ditch or our necks snapped by angry Republicans at a rest stop over the next few days. I'll be home in no time.”

Michael feels his whole body go ice cold, which is just stupid because Alex is more than capable of taking care of himself and is the best driver he knows. Still, his eyes are growing wet and his hands are tingling. 

“Michael?”

“Don’t joke about that. Please, don’t joke about that.” 

* * *

**1473 miles to go**

He is chronically checking his phone. Alex sends him a “we’re okay” text every time he stops somewhere to get gas or food or stretch his legs. 

Michael gets the Venmo notification a few hours later. Five hundred dollars from Isobel with the memo: _ for my (hopefully) NEPHEW <3 <3 <3 (no pressure). _

He is elated and panicked. 

He goes to Target and it is hell incarnate. The lights are too bright, there are too many people, and the whole building smells of cheap body spray and dog food. Without Alex here to distract him, he is in a rotten mood by the time he gets to the checkout line. He spends around a hundred and fifty dollars on a crib, bedding, and bath materials. When he throws a stack of formula and diapers on the conveyor belt, he balks at the price.

“New daddy, huh?” the tired cashier asks, scanning the last of the Pampers.

Michael doesn’t answer her. He grabs a handful of Milky Ways tosses them alongside the generic soy brand formula, instead. He is sweating profusely under his coat. Whether his pits and back wet due to nerves or frustration, he cannot be sure. 

He drives back to the apartment, finds a close parking spot, and drops off the crib. It’s about a block to their apartment and he carries it with a major assist from his powers and no one bats an eye. That’s the thing he loves and hates about the city: no one sees him. He and Alex can hide in plain sight. A neighbor he has never spoken to before holds the door open for him and offers to help him carry it to their room at the end of the hall.

He sits against the door and eats two of the candy bars with a ferociousness that mirrors the way in which he used to pound back whiskey and takes one for the road. He walks to the GoodWill on Centre Street, the wind biting at his face as he licks the caramel from his fingers. He picks up a box at the front and fills it to the brim with clothes and toys and books and when he sees the total of 76.33, he nearly cries in relief. 

He sends the remaining hundred bucks and change back to Isobel that same day. 

* * *

**Iz**: You’re stupid. 

**Michael**: thanks

**Iz**: You both are going to have to ease up on the martyr shit. 

**Iz**: I am going to Nordstrom tomorrow and I have grand plans for that child. Babies need accoutrements. You live in a frozen tundra. Takes a village or whatever.

**Michael**: i kno. 

**Michael**: i’m kinda freaking out. what am i supposed to do with a whole ass baby?

**Iz**: Ass baby.

**Michael**: it is this type of response that perfectly encapsulates why i have always liked you best. 

**Isobel: **Just wait until you see his eyes. You got a duo of beauty driving across the country for your grimy ass.

**Michael: **ok

* * *

**1225 miles to go **

Were this another time and place, Michael would just build this damn fucknut crib himself. But, he is here in a studio apartment with blessedly brick-thick walls and annoyingly no attached junk yard to maneuver around in. 

He likes where they live now. It’s efficient. It smells like Alex and chickpea curry and hand sanitizer. The walls are off-white and the paint chips. The carpet was an ugly green shag until Michael was able to convince their landlord to let him pulled it out. Less because it was gross and more because the carpet keep snagging Alex’s crutch. Now it is an ugly wood that he sanded himself. Michael’s thesis is outlined on the wall across from their tiny kitchen table with post-its, Alex’s library books are everywhere, Fiona’s old toys are still in a box under their bed. It is his home. 

He does miss the workspace, though. 

He admits defeat after a few hours. He carefully places the screws back in their little bags and leans the ply against the far wall, a contemporary art piece. He could title it: “An Unprepared Failure” and sell to the ICA for ten grand.

He tries to get through some of his class reading and fails. He strums a few songs on his guitar but, his left hand won’t stop shaking. 

How pathetic must he be that he can’t get together a crib? He can build a literal spaceship console. He is going to MIT this Spring for mechanical engineering, fully funded. 

And, still, he can’t get this fucking stupid crib together. 

He thinks, inexplicably, of the lab mice he watches through the glass in the chemical engineering lab. He likes them. Their little ears, how their hearts beat 500 times a minute. Their resilience and dishrag water fur. He dreams of breaking them out, of saving them from their dissections. The first time he saw one done, he had excused himself and vomited. Too close to home, too close for comfort, all that fun shit. 

He can’t save the mice and get the degree that would make him happy and feed his family. He can’t save the mice, so he has to prove that he can at least do this. 

He heaves himself out of bed and muscles through the crib building in the middle of the night, using his TK to hold up the sides and righten the nails. He in the midst of jumping up and down in it to prove to himself that it is rock solid when Alex calls.

Alex tells him that he is a motel outside of St. Louis, a prominent feature on their map of monsters. Smackheads in Santa Fe. Alex’s father in a grave in Roswell. The heathen on an airbase in the Midwest. 

“He is still stationed here.” Alex’s voice is pitched low, but it cuts through Michael’s thoughts. “From what I’ve heard, anyway.”

Michael can only grunt like a useless ape. Alex could kill the guy, if he wanted. Would probably be doing the world a favor, but Alex has never been all that concerned about seeking vengeance in his name only. Rage is an exhausting, taxing emotion for him and once the switch is flipped, he can’t seem to turn it off. 

Alex is who he was meant to be now. The boy who never thought there was glory in violence or killing. Whereas Michael thinks bashing the unknown face into the pavement until he sees white and feels a thrum of righteousness. 

Alex sounds tinny over the bad reception and a little strained, “I doubt he even remembers me, anyway. It was so long ago and compared to—I don’t know why I am even thinking about it.”

Michael know why and remembers being twenty-one, the calculated way Alex relayed the story to him from the passenger seat of his truck. _ So, if you don’t want to touch me anymore, or whatever, I’d understand. _There are so many ways that humans have developed to violate the body. It horrifies and fascinates Michael most times. 

It hurts Alex less now, hardly at all, and that matters. It hurt Alex a lot then and that matters just as much. 

“Don’t minimize,” Michael croaks. 

Alex just makes a considering noise into the receiver. Michael can hear him shifting on the hotel bed sheets. Alex tells him that it is cold sleeping without him.

The baby fusses, sounding like a scratchy LP by the time the noise makes it through the phone line to Michael’s ears. He puts the phone on speaker and settles back onto to their bed, placing both hands behind his head and asks for a song. Alex doesn’t hesitate and sings quietly about seasons, shaded ferns, Bougainvillea seeds and blooms. 

It is silent for a few minutes after he finishes. Michael is nearly asleep when Alex whispers, “Well, he’s out like a light. Are you?” All Michael can offer is a sleepy hum. He hears Alex say as he drifts off, “I was thinking that, um. Well. River is kind of a nice name, don’t you think? 

* * *

**671 miles to go**

Alex texts him that they are just outside Cleveland. Michael is thinking about how River is a good, strong name. He tells Maria so. The panic in his voice must read over the phone, because Maria speaking to him with her annoying, patronizing, infuriatingly calming tone. He fiddles with his school id that hangs from the collar of his lab coat, using a corner of it to scrap the scum out from under his nails. She talks him back from the edge as she has done so many times. They talk about Mimi for awhile and how annoying it is that kids are still memeing the 2019 Area 51 raid all these years later. 

Before they say their goodbyes, Maria tells him, “Your kid screamed when I touched him.”

“You saw Alex when he was in town?” He hadn’t mentioned seeing her, which Michael supposes is par for the course. 

“Kinda hard to avoid when he goes to Texas with your brother on a simple intel mission and comes back with a baby and a bad attitude. Someone had to circle the wagons.”

“How was he?”

Maria tone is clipped when she says, “The same. Stiff and polite.” She clears her throat as if physically adjusting her lilting voice back in place. “Anyway, I thought it was the necklace, so I took it off and then tried again. He yowled, practically threw himself on the floor trying to get away from me. Of course your kid would only tolerate Isobel.” 

“I thought Kyle checked him over?”

“Oh, he did. Kid tolerated it, but he wasn’t happy.” 

He muffles a chuckle behind his hand, imagining Kyle’s hurt and exasperated face as he tried to wrangle a furious alien baby. _ ‘Jesus H. Christ, I don’t even have to be doing this! You guys!’ _ has long been one of Kyle’s favorite exclamations. Michael’s laughter turns a little frenetic. “You know, I never wanted kids, really. Remember when we talked about it? How weird it was that none of us wanted to pop out some brats?”

It was a couple years back when they celebrated Kyle’s 31st at the Pony. Liz had given Kyle shit about being an old man and asked if he was going to knock up a nurse soon. Kyle answered honestly that he had never really thought that much about having kids, but that he would be open to it, with the right person. He not-so-subtly nudged Isobel, who had thrown her head back and laughed so hard that the pale skin along the elegant line of her neck turned a patchy red. “You know, I visualize strapping a kid into a car seat and all I can think when I picture that dirty, cute face is: ‘you are taking time away from me.’”

Liz’s cheers’d to that and said she was focused on her work. Max questioned whether or not having kids would be worth the risk, if it would even be moral for them. Maria confessed that she had little to no interest in passing on her genetics, or being held down, for that matter. Michael had hedged his bets, said they had enough problems on their own. Alex nodded along. 

He hears Maria’s light scoff over the noise of her employees chattering and the clank of glasses in to the drying rack.

“What?” 

“Everyone knew you and Alex were lying through your teeth that night. Rosa and I still laugh about it.” 

Michael doesn’t understand what he is supposed to do with that. 

* * *

**545 miles to go **

Alex has seen the world. He has done and seen things that Michael could never imagine, and he is an _ alien _. The morning Alex left for Roswell, he had pulled Michael on top of him, bit at the shell of his ear and demanded that Michael come inside of him. Michael often wonders if he hadn’t been the one to teach him how to fuck and be fucked if Alex would still love him. He has trapped him with sentiment, he is sure of it, and now and this kid is the perfect out. 

He twitches due to fatigue and the memory of the grip of Alex’s body around him. He drops the beaker he was using for his liquid thermo-transference project and watches with rapt fascination as it shatters on the ground. 

Samba, his lab partner, takes him by the shoulders with his large hands in a gentle grip. “Time to head home now, bruv,” he tells a bewildered Michael. The bright lab lights are reflecting off of the lovely dark skin of Samba’s bald head. Michael muses to himself that this man shines like an indoor night sky. He fumbles out of his lab coat and then out the door. Samba calls out after him, “And remember to email my contact at MIT!” 

* * *

Max calls during Michael’s walk home. His brother’s rage has not flagged with the passing of nearly two days. “You remember what he was like after—”

“Yeah, pretty sure I fuckin’ remember it all pretty fuckin’ clearly. Remember it pretty fuckin’ clearly ‘cause, you know, I’m the one that was there. I’m the one that is fuckin’ married to him, I’m the one—”

“Okay! I just want… Alex and I are not going to be weaving each other friendship bracelets any time soon. I know that, but I am just looking out for his best interests. Right now, I kind of feel like I am the only one who is. Isobel isn’t exactly the best judge of right and wrong, as we know.” 

“That’s noted, Max. Do me a solid and don’t say that shit in front of him or Isobel again.” 

“You’re telling me that he is in his right mind? That she is? He _stole a baby_ and she is practically throwing a party over it_. _”

“Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, jeepers creepers, where'd ya get those peepers?” 

“You are such a child, Michael,” Max says, easily nettled as always, and hangs up. 

He whistles all the way down the street, swinging his keys on his fingers and smiling. He sings under his breath, “Jeepers creepers, where'd ya get those eyes?”

* * *

**395 miles to go **

On his lunch break the next day, he gets a text of a picture of Alex holding an alert looking baby that is so much smaller than Michael imagined him being. Alex looks tired and is wearing the grey hoodie Michael had been looking for.

> **Michael**: cute kid
> 
> **Alex**: Sorry, that was meant for Isobel. 
> 
> **Michael:** i’m kinda freaking out over here
> 
> **Alex:** Two more sleeps. Maybe only one. 

* * *

**311 miles to go **

Alex calls him from somewhere outside of Syracuse, New York. He tells Michael it is beautiful and freezing there, that wishes that he could be with them. “I made good time today. We’ll probably get a late start tomorrow, so we should hit Logan around 1900 tomorrow. I’m dropping the car off there, ‘cause it is easier. Will you be home by then?”

He hears a child squealing with delight in the background.

“I’ll meet you there.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to. I’ll bring the truck. I’ll meet you at arrivals, yeah?” 

That night, he should be working on his finishing up his thesis, but he is googling 'baby in shower' because they only have a half-sink in their kitchenette and their bathroom is narrow as shit. It barely fits Alex's chair. But, it turns out you can, in fact, take a baby in the shower with you, which is a relief. 

He folds the still dryer-warm baby clothes and places them neatly atop their shared chest of drawers. He looks around the apartment and reluctantly accepts that he has done all he can do. 

He is nearly thirty-three and is still acclimating to having someone to bounce ideas off of, to touch, to walk to work with. He doesn’t want to lose it. Not yet. 

* * *

**0 miles to go**

Michael is squatting on the ground with his head in his hands. He wracks his brain, repeating key facts from everything he had read over the past two days to himself: support the head, try to sleep when the baby sleeps, always check the temperature of things. People love babies, so logic follows that babies don’t spend a shit ton of time in the foster care system. So, Michael knows from toddlers and small children, just by nature of being in the system, but he has never even held a baby. He has never held a baby. He has _ never _ held a—

His phone pings with a message from Alex telling him that dropped the car off, but he had to stop to change the kid’s diaper and that he should be down at arrivals soon. He is nervous now, bouncing on the balls on his feet.

“Guerin!” 

He looks up at the sound of Alex’s voice and every bullshit thought he had about his good life being a balancing act of precariously placed spinning plates crashing to the floor disappears. Alex is walking towards him with his signature backpack strapped tightly on his back, along with his crutch. He has a car seat in one hand, a baby wrapped up in his other arm and chewing on his jacket collar. Alex has his beanie on, his nail polish is chipped. He looked exhausted, but still, Alex smiles at him, giddy and childlike. 

He comes right up to Michael, so close that the toes of their boots are touching. He gives him one, long closed mouth kiss before pressing their foreheads together. “I missed you, so goddamn much. Your beard is getting long, I love it.” 

Michael touches his own chin, realizing only now that he had neglected to shave since Alex left. The baby starts squirming and Michael gets his first good look at him. The baby has brown, almost red, hair and a big, puffy coat on to protect his sensitive olive skin from the Massachusetts cold. They share blood or origin or both, Michael is certain. Looking at Alex is akin to looking up at the stars and the moon. This child makes him feel as though he is staring directly into the sun. He feels fission and fusion when he looks into the child’s eyes. They are something, Isobel was right. He squeezes his own eyes shut before he burns his retinas. He wonders, briefly, if the kid feels it, too. Michael gets his answer when he merely gurgles and shoves his fist into his mouth, plopping his head back down on Alex’s shoulder, decidedly disinterested in Michael. 

So, they also have that in common.

When he finally looks back to Alex, he finds the man grimacing. “Do you hurt?”

Alex’s eyelids are drooping as he offers up a tired grin. “Oh, God, yes.” He clears his throat, adjusting the child on his hip, whose little fingers yanked the brown beanie down over his left eye. “So, this is—” Alex starts, but Michael is already at his back, taking the heavy bag and cumbersome crutch off his shoulders and the vacant car seat out of his hand. “Do you want to—”

“No. So, we’re just across the way here.”

The walk to the short-term parking lot is cold, short, and not entirely unpleasant. 

Michael opens the door for them and when Alex, once again, attempts to hand the baby to him, he freezes. Alex’s face falls only slightly, before he catches himself. “I need you to—do you want to hook the car seat in?”

Michael offers a shaky nod. After trying and failing for a few moments, Alex takes over. He places the baby in his arms with an apologetic look that Michael thinks was meant more for the kid than for him. 

He winces, waiting for the sonic scream every member of their fucked up Scooby Gang has bitched about and it never comes. The baby just squawks and wriggles to get comfortable, which is apparently with his legs dangling and his forehead smashed into Michael’s collarbone. He keeps himself stock still, one hand at along the baby’s back, the other cupping his head. He brushes his power along the flank of the infant’s body, affixing him closer. The child makes a downright happy noise and snuggles against him. 

Alex fastens the car seat in deftly. Michael watches his lithe and graceful hands pull and tug on the belt to make sure it is secure before turning back to them and holding his arms open. When Michael lifts the kid off of his chest, the baby wails and whimpers. Michael feels giant. Earth-sized. He is frozen in his helplessness and hopelessness. He is gripping this little stranger in his arms too tightly and the tiny thing turns and sneezes directly into his mouth and Michael loves. It blooms and expands in Michael as he watches as Alex patiently coaxes him into his familiar hold. “Oh, I know, I know,” he hears Alex softly crooning to the child as he fastens him in. “He is so warm and comfortable, isn’t he?” 

* * *

Michael had left the heat on, a rare luxury for them. He wanted everything to be just right. He realizes now it was a fruitless move, as they are both dead on their feet once they close their apartment door behind them. The baby is wide awake and looking right him, cooing and gurgling and making Michael feel dazed, like he was hit by a two-by-four. A two-by-four of cute, alien baby face. 

He plops down gracelessly on the bed and rubs at his temples. When Michael looks up and meets his eyes, Alex ducks his head and grins softly against the baby's shoulder. Alex looks around their one room apartment taking in the clear counters, folded laundry, the dark wood crib pressed against the edge of their made bed, the pink stuffed cat flopped over on top of the crate of formula. Alex carefully sits down next to him, seating the baby on his lap and taking Michael’s hands into his own. “You did so much.” Michael just hums and rubs the base of the baby’s skull with his nose. “Kyle says he is around ten to twelve weeks old, based on—“

“The size of his melon?”

Alex just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. 

The unnamed baby is fussing, but it is okay. He guides Alex to the futon, so they can relax properly, and the kid settles pretty quickly. It doesn’t matter because in this moment, for Michael, everything is okay. Alex is telling him how the child is a little developmentally delayed and close to being underweight, but Kyle said that he has plenty of time to catch up. Alex is swaying with exhaustion as he speaks, slurring a little and taking increasingly longer pauses between thoughts. 

When Michael tells Alex to go take a hot shower, he offers up no protest. Michael doesn’t move for the twenty or so minutes that it takes for Alex to bathe. He sits carefully still on their shit yellow futon, the baby cooing and occasionally letting out a happy shriek from his place sat atop Michael’s thighs. When Alex’s head finally peaks out of the bathroom door to place his prosthetic against the wall, the child adorns the biggest, gummiest smile, lurching forward and making grabby hands. 

Alex looks enchanting and strong in his boxers and his high school cross country hoodie, with his wet, sweet smelling hair pushed off his forehead. He is heavily favoring his crutch, and Michael is caught between the desire to body slam him onto the bed and wrapping him in a blanket, turning on Harry Potter, and baking him a cake. His favorites are cinnamon and funfetti. Michael would make him both, if he wanted them. He is slowly making his way towards them with a book in his hands. Its soft cover is curling from the humidity, tabs sticking out the sides. Michael had meant to hide it under the sink. Alex is holding “What to Expect in the First Year” to his chest like a bouquet of flowers. He carefully places the book on their kitchen table, which is just a card table that Michael makes a mental note they need to replace with something sturdier.

Alex sits back down on the couch and readjusts the baby between them. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a spell. Then he takes Michael’s face in his hands and kisses him gently, dreamily reminiscent of their time in the shed. True to form, Michael presses into the kiss deeper. He groans and nips at Alex’s lips until he pushes him away only slightly and chides. 

Before Michael knows what is good for him, he comes out with, “It’s good for kids to see their parents be affectionate. Or so I’ve read.” 

The happy sigh Alex let’s out against his mouth quells any brewing panic. 

He changes his first diaper with Alex, shower damp and sleepy, plastered to his back, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Alex hooks his chin over Michael’s shoulder and directs him quietly, punctuated with the occasional yawn or peck behind his ear. It only takes Michael three tries which Alex says is pretty fucking good. 

With the babe clean and fed, they get into bed. Alex dresses him in one of the numerous thick onesies that Michael bought. He holds him up to show Michael, the baby beams and slaps his own purple cloth-clad belly. Michael mimicked the movement, slapping his own bare stomach, which makes the kid and Alex smile. He lays down and Alex promptly places the baby back onto his chest. The baby snuggles and smacks and rocks happily. Alex appraises him and tells him to sit up a bit more.

“How do I look now?

Alex just kisses his shoulder and the baby's head. He turns over with his back to them both. “Do you—” Michael can hear the wet click of Alex’s throat as he swallows. How his breath is coming out all pseudo-shallow and his set shoulders are tense. “Do you like him? You can tell me. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just thought—even if you changed your mind, you should see him in person. He is family. Or, he is your kind, at least. He looks like you and I love you and I just couldn’t leave him. I mean,” Alex swallows again, his voice growing rough. “Do you like him?”

Michael makes a wary noise and lifts the kid off of his chest to appraise him. Alex is right. He looks so like himself. His slightly pointed nose, his shining swarm of amber and green eyes. If he isn’t his blood, the kid sure as shit could pass. It is painful that all Michael can think of at the moment is his mother, who didn’t mentioned a brother or a cousin during their limited time together. But the look on the young child’s face does not fill Michael with foreboding, or regret. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Alex turns to face him wearing a deep scowl. “What? I’m just askin’ yah a question.” 

“I asked _ you _ a question.” 

Michael relents and explains that Samba has a connection with the graduate housing department. Since, he is starting in the Winter session, it is kind of perfect, because there is an opening in the family housing building. The lady in charge just wants them to see the place and, obviously, meet them in person before they sign anything. Also, that the housing director told him that Alex being a wounded vet could help them, Alex says without a trace of sarcasm that he will squeeze into his dress blues if Michael thinks that will help their case. 

“Anyway,” Michael says, clearing his throat and rocking the child side to side. “I know you are sick of your job with Bobby and your retirement money is right there. But, I can apply for a Graduate Plus loan if need be, to fill in the gaps. If I sign up for res life duties, I can get us even more of a break. Just have to take the freshmen bowling or some bullshit a couple times a semester. They have a, uh, daycare thing for a couple hours a day. If you got a job with the school, even part time that would get us more of a break. It would be tight, but what else is new, you know?”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah. Or, I could turn down the offer and just get a full time job.” He has a scrap of paper with options ranging from garages to labs that is burning a hole in his wallet. 

Alex sits up at that, looking grim. He grips Michael’s chin and says sternly, “Absolutely fucking not. No.” He doesn’t look away until Michael nods. “You worked on—you did all of this in three days?”

“Of course. I mean, I don’t—if you want me to be involved, in any capacity, I would do anything. I could even—I could—This could be just a test drive. If you wanted. Honestly, whatever you want.”

Michael’s face is red from babbling, but he grows even hotter at the sight before him. Alex has pulled his good knee to his chest, his throat is contracting. Strands of damp hair have fallen over onto his forehead. He moves unconsciously to push them back, jostling the baby who makes a displeased noise. The moment his fingers touch Alex’s skin, he flinches. Michael feels like he has been socked right in the gut. When Alex finally speaks, he sounds like he is in physical pain, as if his throat had been worked raw from screaming for hours, “What are you talking about?” Michael looks at his lover, the only real, true lover he has ever had. Alex’s back is pulled taut and his neck is bowed, as if he is bracing for a strike. He lets out one short, controlled sob. “I’m not test driving either of you.” 

“Oh,” Michael whispers, full of surprise and wonder. Alex lets out another short cry at that. Michael turns his body closer to him, nuzzling at Alex’s temple like a dog. “Well, uh, do you think _ he _ likes _ me _?”

Alex presses his forehead to Michael’s hard, practically knocking them together. His eyes are shining, his voice a perfect mix of a growling and mewling that only Alex can do. “Yes, yes. Yes, you asshole. I do think he likes you and I like you. I like you. I love you. I like you, I like you, I like you.” 

They stay like that for awhile, long enough that Michael’s eyelids began to flutter. Alex instructs him kindly, “He’s asleep. And you’re about to be, too. So, you need to lay him flat on his back, in the crib.”

Michael huffs and knee-walks along the mattress to the end of their bed, where the crib is. He pauses, before laying him down, touching the bottom of his feet, marveling at the smooth, soft skin. Michael is aging well for a prodigy. The weight of expectation hasn’t greyed him too badly, he reckons. Maybe he is aging poorly for an alien. Maybe he was never meant to age. The baby lets out a few whines, perhaps missing Michael’s warmth and then settles. 

He heaves himself back towards the head of the bed. He pulls the comforter and Alex over him. 

“Max said that I was being selfish.”

“Yeah, well. Max can suck it, y’know?”

“Maybe he is right. I love that baby so much already and I also feel tired and strange and out of my body. Like I’ve ruined us, but also like if anything ever tried to even touch him—I’d fucking die before I left that happen. I am terrified. This is the most terrified I have ever been.” 

“You’re tellin’ me that little nugget over there is scarier than a firefight?”

“No. Yes? The same, but different?” Alex lets out one long exhale. “What do you think. Really, truly?” 

“Darlin’, as soon you walked out of the airport, I was so fuckin’ far gone.”

Alex’s responding smile is blinding. “I’ll need to drum up paperwork for him, for the housing. I’ll do that in the morning. First thing.” He caresses Michael’s face, rubs his thumb along his mouth and fiddles with his beard. Michael grips his wrist and presses a firm kiss to the pad of each of Alex’s gorgeous fingers. “Good night, love.” He turns his head towards the crib and whispers, “Good night, little love.” 

“Yeah, good night, River.”

He feels more than he hears Alex’s sharp inhale. Alex’s arms creep around his middle and his grip on him doesn’t slacken until he completes his chase of sleep and his breathing evens out. The last cogent thought Michael has before he drifts off along with them is that River has tiny, cute ears. Kinda like a mouse. 

**Author's Note:**

> My goal is to not come back and fuck with this, but I know myself. Wish me luck!


End file.
